


Untitled

by Jenwryn



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginny is all warmth and strength and movement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Basic idea unashamedly ganked from a one-sentence fic I wrote one time, uuuh. And YES, this really does have no title, because I fail at those damn things at the best of times. Written for the [International Day of Femmeslash](http://www.femslashday.com/).

**1.**  
Ginny is all warmth and strength and movement, and Hermione has always liked to watch her. Not that she's exactly conscious of it, at first – well, not for quite a long time, to be completely honest. But at some point she realises that her eyes stray much too regularly from novels and textbooks and pages of tightly written study notes. At some point she realises that, if Ginny's in the room, she loses her place amongst the words and can barely even remember the last thing she's read. Hermione finds it vaguely worrisome, but she's reasonably certain that, in the grand scheme of things, it's not important enough to get stressed about. Even if she has to repeat her lack of concern like an insistent mantra.

**2.**  
It's Professor Dumbledore, of all people, who finally says it. Not that he's specific, because he's _Dumbledore_ and he thrives on vague, but Hermione knows that he knows. There's something about the way that he leans over the battlement of books she's surrounded herself with in the silence of the library; something about the way that he smiles, and offers her a blueberry bonbon, and says, in that dry, absently-amused voice of his, “You know, you're only young once, Miss Granger.” Hermione reminds herself that he'd never so much as _mentioned_ anyone or anything starting with _G_, but... there's something about the way he waggles his fingers in the redhead's general direction, as he leaves, which assures Hermione it hadn't been particularly necessary.

**3.**  
Mid-winter, all heavy snow and high-collared coats, and Ginny's face is pink and her nose is even pinker; she's laughing with her older brothers and Harry. Hermione is reading _The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall_ at the edge of the courtyard, except that she's not really reading at all, and hasn't been since page one hundred and forty-five, when Mrs Graham had discontinued her walk and leant against one end of the chimney-piece, at which point Ginny had let out a shout and a laugh, and that had been the end of Mrs Graham, and the chimney-piece for that matter, and there's been nothing but Ginny, and her pink nose, and her ridiculous Weasley jumper ever since. Hermione rests her head against the cold stone wall of the castle and watches them, smiling when they smile, because the Weasleys are infectious like that. And when Ginny grins specifically at Hermione, and Hermione's own skin is stupid enough to blush, Hermione counts on the fact that everyone will just think it's the cold. She pretends that Fred _doesn't _wink at George in a Significant Way, either. Bloody idiots.

**4.**  
Late winter, all dripping eaves and tentative buds on the most tenacious of the trees, and Ginny's face is pink when she grabs at Hermione, hard enough to leave marks on her arm through her coat, a startled expression on her face, and says, "You _like_ me." At least it wasn't a question, Hermione thinks in a panicked, circling like of way, as she just stares, then pulls herself free, makes a motion with her head that could mean a thousand things or none (it actually means _oh god please no don't ask me that like that please_), turns, and runs inside – runs so fast that even Filch just gapes at her. By the time he's remembered to screech and dock points, she's already sniffling at the Fat Lady and  is beyond caring anyway.

**5.**  
It had always been too stupid for words, right from the start, Hermione remonstrates herself. Besides, Ginny's kissing Harry nowadays.

**6.**  
Then there's Voldemort, and hiding, and running, and fighting, and it's not as though petty things like emotions are allowed to matter anymore, and it's not as though the world has any space left in it, and it's not as though, when it's all over – the bloodshed, the violence, the victory – no, it's not as though, when it's all over, Hermione is being held in the arms of the wrong Weasley. It's not as though she doesn't love Ron. Really. And it's_ certainly _not as though anyone but her seems to doubt it, anyway, and haven't they all been hurt enough already, without her being selfish now too?

**7.**  
The London weather whips mercilessly at their hair until Hermione gives in, reaches out, and tucks a strand of auburn beneath Ginny's beanie – Ginny's laugh falters, caught just at the corners, and she presses her face in sideways against Hermione's hand. Hermione's  explanation of her sudden need to _go and buy something in that store over there_ comes out slightly strangled, but neither Harry nor Ron seem to notice. And Ginny doesn't say a word, and so maybe it will all be okay, all be okay, if only Hermione can tell herself that she can't feel Ginny's eyes watching her even when she's well out of sight.

**8.**  
Three months before the wedding date, and Mrs Weasley hands her a teatowel, gestures at the dishes drying beside the sink, then turns back to the soup, which is simmering away merrily on the stove, and says, conversationally and tremulously all at the same time, "I don't think you ought to marry him, dear." Hermione drops a plate, shards of white china skipping every which where, but Mrs Weasley doesn't seem to mind, doesn't seem to mind about anything, actually, just wraps her arms around Hermione and speaks a mess of comforting words that could be in Dutch for all the sense Hermione is able to make of them, except the litany that she's_ like a daughter, like a daughter, like a daughter to them_, and _sometimes it's better to be honest about these things before other people get irreparably broken_. And she lets Hermione cry. And she doesn't shout at her, not even once, not even when Ron gets that expression on his face; not even when Ginny hands a note to Harry and simply leaves.  
**  
9.**  
Hermione is of the opinion that the boys should never forgive her.

**10.**  
And then there are days when she thinks she should just let it all go.

**11.**  
Hermione hates Harry for the first time in her life, the morning he hands her a ticket to Prague, because it's the first time his martyr complex has been truly turned in her direction, and it's the first time she's truly understood just how awful his niceness can make a person feel. She shouts at him and says things that she doesn't even mean, nonsense things she didn't even know she'd ever thought – because she adores him, Christ, he's her best friend in so many ways, but _your fiancee fucking left you because of me and now you're handing me fucking tickets? _And that's when Harry laughs, actually _laughs_, and splutters out something about swear words and prim Hermione Granger, before grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. He tells her to shut her ruddy mouth and do what she wants for once, consquences and everyone else be damned. "I wish I could," he whispers in her ear, "I wish I knew how." And Hermione still hates him, just a little bit, for actually meaning it, but she takes the ticket anyway.

**12.**  
Nobody knows them in Europe. Their names are vaguely famous, but the boys have always overshadowed them, and their faces go unnoticed. It takes Hermione a while to find her and, when she does, the redhead just smiles, frowns, smiles again and puts her head to one side, questioningly, as though she's waiting to see what it is that Hermione wants. What Hermione wants is to hold her close and so she does, and it's strange, and it's beautiful, and she wonders why she didn't do it years ago. "I'm glad," Ginny whispers, the cold wind rough-housing with her hair again. Hermione catches the loose strands gently, sliding them behind Ginny's ears. She smells of peppermint and aloe, and, when she presses her face sideways against Hermione's hand, Hermione just curls her fingers slightly and strokes her cheek.

**13.**  
One hotel bed, two pillows, and Ginny's hands against her when they sleep. Hermione's brain even manages to shut up for whole rows of hours, as she lays in that bed, warm sheets white against her, and Ginny's hair spilling red across her chest. Ginny likes to cuddle, seeking out warmth, seeking out reassurance that Hermione is really there. They sleep. They wake. They number freckles with wandering fingertips. They talk. Oh, they talk for hours, about everything and about nothing. About Harry and Ron. About the things they could have, should have, would have done. About the things that matter more than that, though, now that Ginny has trailed her mouth over every inch of Hermione and made her gasp; now that Hermione has watched Ginny brush her hair, naked and dripping water, in front of the fogged-up bathroom mirror. Days pass, weeks, and the_ coulds_ and _shoulds_ and _woulds_ evaporate with the oncoming spring, replaced by _wills_ and _shalls_ and _musts_.

**14.**  
Summer arrives, and people know them in London. People_ talk_. Ginny shrugs and smiles, and has her hair cut short because Hermione likes to nuzzle at her bare neck. She promises, more than once, that she doesn't give a damn what anyone else says, so long as Hermione is happy. She really means it, too.

**15.**  
(...because Hermione is all thought and grace and eager curiosity, and Ginny has always liked to watch her.)


End file.
